


Guilty as Charged, Feverish Dreams

by TipsyEpsy



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Also there's mentions of waterboarding and drowning? Kinda?, Fever Dreams, Sexual Subtext, This thing is a huge mess to be honest but it was a good way to vent some stuff, bizarre, violent themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 12:13:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14811183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TipsyEpsy/pseuds/TipsyEpsy
Summary: “As a child, Ernesto had always suffered through terrible fever dreams during his moments of illness. Those days and nights spent in bed would always be full of torment and terror, as his overactive imagination conjured up the most terrifying hallucinations possible. Now that he was an adult, things weren’t any different.”





	Guilty as Charged, Feverish Dreams

There was nothing more humbling and terrifying than experiencing a terrible sickness. The kind that could sweep you off your feet and leave you hanging in between life and death, like an acrobat swinging on an unsafe trapeze.  
It reminded even the bravest and most hardened men of their mortality, of their own fragilities.  
It could sneak up on you at any moment in life, be you at your very best or at your very worst. You would always live your life without being able to predict when the time would come for you to succumb to something so calculative, so cruel.  
You couldn’t bargain with illness, you couldn’t plead with it, you couldn’t do anything else but bare with the results and hope for a swift recovery.  
Hope for peace and blissful unawareness in forced feverish slumber.

Ernesto de la Cruz hated being sick. Ever since he was a young boy living in his parents’ family home, he’d hated it. Now as an adult, he absolutely despised it.  
No musician as grand as he, should ever be forced to endure such a waste of time that came with recovering from influenza or the slightest of colds.  
He didn’t have time to stand around while his career was at its peak.  
But, above all, he didn’t want to be forced to lay down in bed while sick.  
Which he now was.  
Bound to a bed, his manager having forced him to lay down when he’d noticed the unsteady walk, the slight glazed and dull look in his eyes, the flush of his cheeks, the loss of appetite...  
Ernesto had come down with a terrible fever from over-exerting himself, and he was paying the price for having ignored his deteriorating health for so long.

As a child, Ernesto had always suffered through terrible fever dreams during his moments of illness. Those days and nights spent in bed would always be full of torment and terror, as his overactive imagination conjured up the most terrifying hallucinations possible.  
Women with melting faces and hag-like hands would haunt his dreams.  
Men with coyote teeth and serpentine tongues would stalk him from underneath his bed.  
Creatures so absurd in appearance he simply couldn’t name them, would float above the bed and howl into the night...All of these dancing and crawling beasts had loomed over him and tried to snatch him away with their repulsive limbs, sending his young mind into a state of hysteria that was often accompanied by salty tears, and shrill cries for his mother to come comfort him.  
But now his mother was 6 feet under somewhere in the cemetery of Santa Cecilia, while he was in a darkened hotel room in some mexican town he could no longer remember the name of.  
He was alone, his head was swimming and his eyelids were heavy. But, as alone as he was in the physical world, in the psychological world he wasn’t alone at all.

There, in the darkest corner of the room, was someone. They were tall and well dressed, standing still, so still that they barely looked like they were breathing. A figure cloaked by shadows, barely discernible but Ernesto was well aware that they were there and that they were watching him.  
There were also sounds. A terrible nerve wrecking noise of nails on wood, teeth clattering as if the room wasn’t stuffy and hot, but instead windy and cold. And then there was the disgruntling gurgling noise that came with a sound reminiscent of boiling water that threatened to escape from the kettle.  
The figure and the noises were making Ernesto break out in a cold sweat as he struggled to keep his eyes open.  
He knew that, from the moment he closed his eyes, the figure would take this small moment of weakness to come closer. It’s how the monsters that his feverish mind conjured, always behaved. It was the norm for them, the only constant.

Ernesto de la Cruz, greatest musician that ever was, was losing a staring contest with something whose eyes he couldn’t even see. Couldn’t be sure it even had.  
Each ticking second on the clock, was making his head pound.  
The figure’s accompanying background noises were making his stomach churn uncomfortably with nerves. The questions of what the thing was, were draining him.  
Finally the dryness of his eyes won the battle.  
Ernesto blinked.  
For a second, the blissful respite of darkness.  
When he next opened his eyes, the thing was upon him.  
Except it wasn’t a thing, it was a man.  
And it wasn’t a man. It was Hector Rivera.  
Or at least something wearing his face.

                                                                          

A strangled scream threatened to escape Ernesto’s mouth as his eyes widened in terror, only for his mouth to be covered by a cold rigid hand.  
The thing? Hector? The Hector-Thing was raising his? It’s? Was raising its free hand to its own lips, shushing him gently like Ernesto’s mother had done when he was just a sick little child.  
It was making Ernesto’s skin crawl just from watching the familiar gesture be repeated by a dead man.  
Because Hector was dead, and whatever this creature was, Ernesto knew it couldn’t possibly be real. But he could feel it touching him, he could hear it gurgle out a shushing noise, but never did it actually move it’s lips.  
The Hector-Thing shushed him for a while, keeping it’s hand on top of Ernesto’s mouth, while the other lowered to gently caress his sweaty forehead.  
And then Ernesto realized that there was something wrong with the hands that were currently touching his face.

The mariachi tries to scream, he does. But his throat is raw and the stone cold, tight skinned hand is now digging into his cheeks, cutting into skin just to keep Ernesto’s mouth shut.  
The hand caressing his forehead is larger than Ernesto’s face, spider-like fingers tipped with horrific black claws.  
The Hector-Thing’s smile has widened unnaturally, warping his face in such a way that Ernesto feels like he’ll begin to cry from fear.  
And then the creature that’s wearing his ex-best friend’s skin leans closer.  
It’s neck is bending impossibly as it’s face lowers and lowers, coming closer and closer to Ernesto’s own face.  
The hand keeping his mouth shut is suddenly prying it open.  
And then the creature opens it’s own mouth and a flood of black goo is being forced down Ernesto’s throat.

                                                                          

Ernesto screams and chokes on the foul smelling liquid, the stench of putrid blood, vomit and garling assaulting his nose as he is forced to swallow the rancid gunk.  
And the taste of it! The gut-rotting taste! Gods the taste! It feels like his tongue will fall off just from coming into contact with the goo!  
During this assault, the monster’s eyes have rolled back into its own skull in a look that was a mixture of both pain and pleasure. It keeps Ernesto’s mouth propped open with its hands while wave after wave of gunk cascades out of its mouth.  
Just when Ernesto thinks he’s about to drown, the floodgates seem to close and the creature is panting heavily as it recovers from the vomiting fit. Tongue hanging out as it huffs out deep breaths while it shuddered in pleasure.  
This is when Ernesto hopes, prays to god even, that it’s all over.  
He couldn’t be more wrong.

The creature is back to looking like Hector, the claws are gone, the smile is proportionate, but this only helps make Ernesto feel more uncomfortable and scared.  
The creature is climbing on top of him now, legs parted so that it neatly rests on Ernesto’s lap.  
There’s no warmth coming off of it, just a deep bone-chilling cold that makes the mariachi curl his toes and try to make himself look as small as possible in an attempt to beckon any form of mercy these nightmarish beasts could offer.  
The Hector-Thing, it seems, isn’t particularly merciful.

Ernesto feels a jolt of agonizing pain as the creature brings it’s knee up before forcing it down painfully on top of his groin, digging it further in when it sees his reaction.  
The assault is painful enough that it makes Ernesto tear up and feel nauseous.  
And then there are hands wrapped around his neck and a tendril running up and down his flushed cheek. The Hector-Thing’s mouth is parted open just barely enough that a long jagged tongue has escaped the confines of his maw, feeling Ernesto’s skin while the beast slowly chokes him out.  
And then the tendril retreats, and the monster opens its mouth further and further, until it’s jaw is distended and unhinged like that of a snake’s.

Out from the pitch black wetness of the Hector-Thing’s mouth, comes a hand. Then another, and then two long arms that seek out his face.  
Ernesto sobs involuntarily. The hands at his throat are gone, now gripping his shoulders as the creature arched its back in a similar way to that of the women Ernesto had bedded in the past.  
The hands are studying his face, gentle and cold. Wet and sticky. Tender and loving.  
The whole scene looks unbearably sexual in ways that it shouldn’t, because Ernesto had never pictured himself with Hector in such a way.  
But then again, Hector had always been weaker hadn’t he?  
Fragile. More submissive.  
Was this not the role of a woman? Was this not fitting? Was this not what he’d wanted? Hector all to himself?  
Not in the eyes of god, it wasn’t. Not in his own eyes, he didn’t.  
Men should not lay with men. Hector had not been what Ernesto had wanted.

Ernesto screamed as he felt claws dig into his face, the gentleness of the creature’s touch replaced by rage and murderous intent.  
The sexual imagery replaced by a repulsive grin with far too many teeth and a wickedness in cold dead eyes. His realization had infuriated the monster.  
The Hector-Thing stood and bent itself, far too tall to fit the room.  
Ernesto watched in absolute horror as the world around them shattered, as the creature grew larger and larger, its appearance warping into something demonic yet still reminiscent of Hector.  
The satanic creature, made of hands, made of teeth, made of eyes, made of black goo, was cackling cruelly as it grabbed at him, pulling him down into a pit of fire that had taken the place of the hotel room’s floor.  
Threatening to pull Ernesto into the very pits of hell for even thinking such impure things.  
Divine punishment for his crimes against his best friend and against god’s will.

Begging to the heavens didn’t seem to help. Begging forgiveness from the creature didn’t do anything else than make it laugh even louder.  
There was no redemption to be sought, no salvation for his soul, nothing more than terror and pain, as Ernesto tried to justify his actions.  
He was guilty as charged and he’d never be anything other than a pitiful sinner in the eyes of god. He was doomed to the pits.

\---

And then it was all gone.

\---

The darkness was replaced by light. A cool wet rag was positioned on his forehead to lower his fever. The sheets were neatly tucked but lose enough that they didn’t feel constrictive like the grip of a corpse.  
Ernesto de la Cruz was awake and aware, coming into a reality he hadn’t been aware he’d been living up until this very second.  
His manager was spoon-feeding him some soup, chatting animatedly with him about scheduling for the next concert, unaware of the growing confusion and disorientation his patient was currently feeling.  
Gone were the feverish landscapes of hell.  
Gone was the creature wearing his friend’s skin.  
Gone was the guilt he’d been feeling in his lowest moment.  
A sinner Ernesto might be in god’s eyes...But in men’s eyes he would make himself a saint.

**Author's Note:**

> I recently recalled a terrible fever dream I had a few weeks days ago and it reminded me of just how horrific my nights were when I was ill as a kid. What better way to vent this sort of thing other than through tormenting fictional characters in fictional settings? So here’s Ernesto suffering through a fever dream that seems to revolve around his conflicted feelings for his ex-best friend.


End file.
